Letters
by Haelia
Summary: Correspondence that was never sent.
1. Chapter 1

John,

I've gone over it many times in my head - what I would say to you, that is. I've rewritten this letter at least a dozen times in a dozen different places. I've shredded it every time, never satisfied with the outcome. It has to be perfect, and it never is.

I am sitting in a cafe in Chandigarh. A very young girl is serving me tea and biscuits, and just beyond the cafe's plastic awning, it's raining hard. But beyond the screen of rainfall, I can see the Shivalik Hills. From this distance and with the rain and mist they look blue. I think you'd find a place like this interesting.

But I digress. To be truthful, I'm stalling. I still don't know what to say. Imagine that.

Proper etiquette states that I should apologise. I'm sorry. There, I've said it, but I feel no different and I'm sure you don't either. What are we meant to say when sorry isn't enough? What are the rules for how to mend things with a friend you've cruelly tricked and abandoned? There's no data. I can't work without data.

Sometimes I imagine what you must be doing. I hope you've gotten on with your life. Maybe without me to distract you, you'll meet someone. Maybe you already have. Maybe you're back with Sarah. Of all the women you dated, her personality was the most compatible with yours. How would you put it? Oh - she suits you.

Digressing again. Stalling.

Should I say it again? I'm sorry.

It doesn't matter. I'll never send this letter. I can't. To keep you safe, I can't.

And I'm sorry for that too.

-SH


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Sherlock,

Hello, how are you? I hope you're well. I'm not doing so bad myself. I had a date the other night! It was a lovely time.

_THIS IS POINTLESS_. I mean, really. Why am I writing letters to a dead man? Dead. DEAD.

She said it would help. She said, it would help to get my thoughts down on paper. I told her I don't want to blog anymore, and she handed me this bloody notebook and told me to write you letters. But that's stupid, because you're dead and the dead don't get any post. My therapist has a PhD and she should know that.

But let's humour her for just a moment. Suppose the dead did get post. What would I say to you? First of all, I'd like to call you a long list of rude names - like selfish git. Okay, that one is pretty tame, but if you were really going to read this letter, I'd call you some truly nasty names with lots of swears so you would see how angry I am and maybe you'd feel a sense of guilt for once. Then I'd ask you why you did it. Why did you go and kill yourself, Sherlock? That's not like you. There must have been a reason. I don't believe the one you told me. Whatever you've done, whatever lie you've told - and I don't really think you told one at all - we could work it out. We could have worked it out.

And I guess that's all I'd write. So, you see, this exercise is stupid, because you're not around to write back and give me the answers.

Hope the afterlife is nice, with... I don't know... really good lab equipment,

John


	3. Chapter 3

John,

I didn't tear up the letter I wrote you in Chandigarh two weeks ago, and I'm not sure why. I folded it up and put it in my coat pocket. It's still there. Maybe I'm hanging onto the false hope that someday I'll be in a position to send it. Or maybe I'm hanging onto the much more realistic hope that when this endeavour inevitably kills me, it'll be found with my body and eventually get to you.

I forgot to mention what I'm doing out here on the other side of the world. I'm not in India on holiday. I'm tracking down some of Moriarty's operatives. As long as they're alive, you're still in danger. I can't believe you're safe until I've eliminated everyone who worked under him. No one is safe until then. James Moriarty is dead, but his closest allies are not. They still present a serious threat.

So, maybe my guilt is somewhat absolved by the fact I'm using my newfound anonymity to clean up the mess I've made. Does that help you forgive me?

It's still raining.

-SH


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Sherlock,

Still not sure why I'm doing this. Maybe I'm hoping you're haunting me and reading over my shoulder. If you are, knock something off the mantel so that I know you're there.

Yeah, didn't think so.

Look, I haven't gone back to Baker Street. I think Mrs. Hudson's probably gone ahead and given away your things, since it's been a couple months. I hope that's okay. I have the skull and the violin, though. I just... I couldn't bear to get rid of them. I had Mrs. Hudson bring them by. Pretty sure she tossed out all your ongoing experiments, though. Sorry.

Anyway, the skull's on my mantel and the violin's in its case, leaning against the wall next to the fireplace. I need to move it, though, because it looks like it's waiting for you to walk in the door and play it or something, and that's not going to happen, so it's just depressing.

Yeah, okay. That's enough of this.

How many postage stamps would it take to get to the afterlife, anyway?

John


End file.
